Author's Preface

Author's Preface

Wearing vines and girdled with heliotrope, the Lord of Three Wards was moved to compose his lament; conjuring ox-demons and serpent-spirits, the long-nailed scholar sang and made of it his obsession. To give voice to nature's own music, choosing no pleasing tones—there was reason for it. The pine tree, aloof, a fire of autumn fireflies—goblins and sprites vie with it for brilliance; chasing the dust of wild horses—the shadow-spirits mock it. My talent falls short of Gan Baos, yet I am fond of gathering tales of the supernatural; my temperament resembles that of the man of Huangzhou, who delighted in hearing others speak of ghosts. When I heard a story, I took up my brush, and so a collection took shape. In time, like-minded friends from all directions sent me manuscripts by post, and thus things gather where there is a taste for them—my stores grew ever more abundant. In extreme cases: the people are not beyond the pale of civilization, yet their tales may be stranger than those of the land of the cropped hair; the eyelash is right before one's eyes, yet the marvels surpass even the country of the flying heads. My soaring, untrammelled spirit—madness I can scarcely deny; my perpetual lodging of feelings in the vast—foolishness I do not seek to hide. When men of accomplishment meet me, can they help but grin at me? Yet at the crossroads of Wufu, some things may have been heedlessly overheard; and upon the Stone of Three Lives, one may well discern the causes of former lives. There are wanton words here that cannot be dismissed merely because of the man who wrote them.

When I was born, my late father dreamed of a lean and ailing Gautama, entering the room with bared shoulder, bearing a medicinal plaster the size of a coin, round, stuck upon the breast. He awoke, and I was born—and indeed it matched the dark mark. Moreover: in youth I was frail and often ill, and in maturity my fate was no better. The desolation of my household was as cold as a monk's; the toil of my brush was as bleak as an alms bowl. Often I scratched my head and wondered: Could it be that the man who faced the wall is indeed my former self? It is because of karmic roots riddled with outflows that I have not yet attained the fruit of godhood or humanity; instead, drifting with the wind, I have fallen to become a flower by the fence or in the privy. In the vastness of the six paths of existence—how can one say there is no reason for it!

Only: in the deep of night, the lamp glimmers, its flame about to bud; in my austere study, a chill rustles, the desk seems cold as ice. Gathering fur from armpits to make a coat, I presumptuously continue the Records of the Dark World; floating cups of wine as I wield the pen, I barely complete a book of solitary indignation: such is my lodging of feeling—and it is enough to grieve over! Alas! A frost-shaken sparrow, clutching a tree, finds no warmth; a moon-mourning autumn insect, clinging to the railing, warms itself alone. Those who understand me—they must dwell among dark forests and black frontiers! Spring of the Jimao year of the Kangxi reign.